


get ourselves a treat

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Can Be A Little Bastard, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Horny for Popcorn, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Sexual Fantasy, The Inherent Eroticism of Movie Theatres, Thirsty Aziraphale (Good Omens), as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24242284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: In the 1930's, Crowley drags Aziraphale to his first motion picture. It's in the darkened cinema that the angel gets, shall we say, a taste of his own medicine.Or: the expanded version ofThe Popcorn Ficlet.Thank you to the GO-Events server for their support and general amazingness! Special thanks toelizabethelizabethandLiquid_Lyrium.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 100





	get ourselves a treat

_1931._

Aziraphale frowned up at the sparkling marquee, round light bulbs proudly announcing the evening’s offerings.

“Really, my dear, there’s a perfectly serviceable ballet on tonight, I don’t see why-”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “‘Serviceable?’ Real sterling review, angel. No, we’re here to set a travesty right. There have been talking pictures for four bloody years now. You’ve no excuse.”

Aziraphale sighed as dramatically as he possibly could. He simply couldn’t understand the appeal. To sit in the dark and to stare at a fixed screen where the performers were’t even really there! Where was the passion? Where was the connection?

Also, the floors were rather sticky.

Crowley sidled up to a counter, and flicked two fingers at the attendant. He really was a striking picture himself, the lanky demon, leaning so easily against the counter. 

Aziraphale hoped that his blush had subsided by the time Crowley turned to him, now holding two tickets and a bag of popcorn.

“See?” Crowley waggled the popcorn beneath Aziraphale’s nose. “There are snacks. You’ll like it.”

Aziraphale huffed, and they walked into the theatre together. It was empty.

“Well, Crowley, if these motion pictures are so spectacular, where is everyone?” Aziraphale wanted to know.

“Oh, because I’m supposed to be the keeper of everyone’s schedule all of a sudden? How should I know?”

They settled into two red velvet seats in the middle of the room. They had made it just in time, apparently, as the lights suddenly dimmed around them, and an unseen orchestra swelled. Aziraphale brightened when he recognized the music.

“It’s _Swan Lake,_ Crowley!”

“Aziraphale, hush.”

Aziraphale slunk back into his seat, feeling slightly placated by the presence of classical music. As the credits danced across the screen, however, another noise caught Aziraphale’s attention.

A crunch.

Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, and he fought to contain a gasp.

Crowley.

Eating.

The demon’s long fingers plucked piece after piece of the salty, buttery popped corn, drawing them lazily up to his lips, tongue darting out to capture them and draw them into his mouth. As he ate more of the stuff, his fingers became shiny with the slick of the oil, and he occasionally paused to take a finger into his mouth to suck it clean again.

As a hand onscreen crept out of a coffin, Aziraphale realized that he was impossibly hard. 

He watched Crowley’s fingers become increasingly slick with spit and oil. A new blush came over his face as he wondered what it would be like to lean forward and suck Crowley’s fingers clean himself, to feed him pieces of the popcorn and to feel that serpent’s tongue over his own fingers, to get down on his knees on this sticky floor and take Crowley’s cock into his mouth until the demon cried out and begged him for more.

“ _Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make._ ”

“Angel?”

Aziraphale snapped back to himself.

“What’s that, dear?”

“Did you want some?” Crowley held the popcorn bag towards him.

Aziraphale allowed himself one more image: Crowley bending him over the row in front of them, and fucking into him until he forgot every last note of _Swan Lake._

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. “Yes, thank you.”

He took the popcorn from Crowley’s hand, doing his best to ignore the graze of the demon’s still-damp fingers over his own. 

_1932._

The advent of the Universal Studios monster movie was going to be Aziraphale’s undoing. 

It’s not that he didn’t appreciate the literary origins of so many of these dreadful tales. He probably would have been terribly impressed with James Whales’ handling of Shelley’s classic story, for example, had he been able to focus. 

No, the movies themselves weren’t the issue. The awful sticky floors weren’t even the issue.

It was…

Look.

Aziraphale wasn’t an idiot, as you well know. He’d come to recognize the bit of a show he was putting on whenever he ate in front of Crowley. He knew that a particularly well-placed moan of appreciation following the bite, chew, and swallow of a morsel of cake was enough to drain the color out of the demon’s face. 

And Aziraphale liked it. He suspected that Crowley liked it too. It was as much a little indulgence as the cakes themselves. They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t look at it too closely. For his part, thus far, it had been enough. To know that he had this… well, this power, sort of, over Crowley. 

It was enough.

But then Crowley and his damned popcorn. 

They sat together in the dark. Aziraphale was discovering that it wasn’t just the popcorn that did him in, though he still found his mouth watering over the sight of Crowley’s oily fingers. It was really everything about the moviegoing experience. There they sat in the dark, instructed to be quiet, to focus solely on the happenings on the screen. To be polite and discreet, and to take no notice of Crowley’s tongue flicking out over his glazed fingertips. 

“ _Beg your pardon,_ ” Boris Karloff’s Imhotep rumbled up on the screen. “ _I dislike to be touched._ ”

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip a bit harder than necessary. Crowley, as usual, defied all proper seating conventions, and was practically sprawled across three or four seats (non-linear, mind you). The demon slouched down, one arm slung over the back of one seat while his other hand dug through the popcorn, hunting for the perfect piece to drive Aziraphale mad.

Aziraphale sat politely and properly, hands folded in his lap, staring up ahead at the screen.

An entirely different picture played out in his head. He thought of Crowley offering him the popcorn that first time a year ago:

“Did you want some?”

What might a different Aziraphale have said? A bolder Aziraphale?

Onscreen, beautiful Helen fell under the Mummy’s spell, and Aziraphale allowed himself a rather courageous daydream.

_“Did you want some?”_

_“Oh, my dear.” He would have smiled slyly. (He could be sly, you know.) “I think I’m rather in the mood for a different sort of confection.”_

_“Ngk,” Crowley would certainly say. His perfect and articulate demon._

_Aziraphale would take Crowley by the wrist, bring those glistening fingers up to his own pink mouth. He would be curious, he would take his time, he would explore and excavate. His tongue would be tentative at first, slipping out of his mouth just to sample Crowley’s fingertips._

_In his fantasy, Crowley dropped the popcorn on the sticky floor, and gripped the armrest with his free hand._

_He would open his mouth and-_

Onscreen, a cat yowled. 

Aziraphale jumped in his seat, quite interrupted in his reverie. A long arm shot out and immediately wrapped itself around his angelic shoulders. Aziraphale gasped at the contact, turning to look at Crowley with something like wonder on his face.

“Whatever are you doing?” he wanted to know.

“What’s the matter, angel?” Crowley grinned. “Scared of the big, bad Mummy?”

Because this was another part of it. Another unwritten rule. Teasing in place of affection so long as it was admonished properly.

“As though your awful penny dreadfuls could illicit fear in me,” Aziraphale sniffed, turning back to the screen, ignoring the wild thumping in his unnecessary heart. “Quite right, ‘dreadful,’ you know. I can’t imagine what anyone sees-”

Crowley interrupted Aziraphale by gently poking a perfect piece of hot, buttery popcorn into the angel’s mouth. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he nearly forgot what he was supposed to do next.

“Chew, angel,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale did.

“Swallow.”

The popcorn slid down his throat.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“No talking during the movie, yeah?”

Crowley’s arm stayed put around Aziraphale’s shoulders for the rest of the picture.

Yes, these monster movies were turning into a bit of a problem. 

_1935._

“ _It’s a perfect night for mystery and horror._ ”

Oh, it was a perfect night for Something.

They sat once again alone in the darkness of the cinema. There had been a dozen or so other moviegoers in the room when they’d first walked in, but Aziraphale had quietly dismissed them with a small miracle.

He had a plan, you see.

As the film began, as Mary Shelley herself addressed her compatriots, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley hadn’t figured out just a little bit of what had been going on in Aziraphale’s mind during their silver screen adventures. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale watched the demon take turns sucking salt and butter off of each one of his fingers in turn, slowly.

He must have known. 

Which was fine. Really.

Crowley leaned sideways and whispered into Aziraphale’s ear, “You sure you don’t want some, angel? It’s good tonight.”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley and smiled, quite looking forward to undoing the smug look on Crowley’s face.

“Oh, no, thank you, my dear. I brought something of my own this time.”

And, sure enough, even against the flickering darkness, Aziraphale noted with absolute satisfaction the change of coloring on Crowley’s cheeks as he retrieved the candy bar from his coat pocket.

“Seems a little juvenile for your tastes, angel,” Crowley managed to scoff, though Aziraphale heard the tiny swallow there in the back of the demon’s throat.

Aziraphale ran his fingers idly up and down the candy’s red and white wrapping. “It’s not the symphony, Crowley. ‘When in Rome,’ as you know.”

Crowley gritted his teeth a bit at that. He did know. About Rome. Aziraphale remembered how strange the demon’s sweaty brow had seemed as they’d consumed oysters together. He’d half-wondered if demon corporations were capable of things like human allergic reactions until his gaze had traveled lower lower lower.

When in Rome, indeed.

Crowley made an irritated noise and shoved his fingers less gracefully than usual into his popcorn box. He stuck a piece of it into his mouth, allowing his forked tongue to linger on his thumb in a manner that proved to Aziraphale that, at some point along the way, this had indeed turned into something deliberate. 

“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, but he didn’t fight his smile. He was going to win, handily. “Your manners are simply monstrous. Perhaps a demonstration would help?”

Aziraphale gently tore the corner of the candy’s wrapper, sliding the paper slowly down the length of the chocolate bar.

Thunder crashed up on the screen, and Crowley’s shoulders hitched up to his ears. Aziraphale smiled as he regarded the chocolate in his hands, already beginning to melt ever so slightly against his warm skin.

“Something the matter, Crowley? Frightened? Should we switch cinemas? I hear that _Anna Karenina_ is awfully charming.”

Aziraphale punctuated the remark with an introductory bite of his candy bar. As the chocolate and caramel hit his tongue, a delighted moan began to escape his lips, but, oh, wait-

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear. I am supposed to be quiet, am I not?”

Crowley snatched the sunglasses off of his face, and oh, if Aziraphale still had any doubt that his demon companion hadn’t put together the pieces of this particular puzzle, they were all quickly done away by the hungry gleam on Crowley’s golden eyes.

“Would you like some, Crowley?” Aziraphale offered the candy bar to him, wiggling it just a little bit as though to waft the scent of the chocolate in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley, it should be noted, was not going down without a fight.

“Nah,” he drawled, a steady and purposeful composure in his voice. “Chocolate’s not really my thing. Could go for _something_ sweet, though-”

Aziraphale’s breath caught. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Crowley returned his glasses to his face and practically tumbled over the back of his seat, slithering off quickly in the direction of the lobby. Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Crowley seemed far too put together considering his chocolate bar antics and Aziraphale, well…

He closed his eyes and imagined Crowley accepting his offer. Imagined Crowley leaning forward and swiping his tongue over the melting chocolate between Aziraphale’s fingers. He imagined leaning forward and tasting the chocolate and the salt of the popcorn mingling in Crowley’s mouth.

Well, this hadn’t been part of the plan at all. 

(Of course it had.)

Crowley bounded back into the theatre with a kick to the swinging double doors. He launched himself back into his seat, grinning triumphantly. He held up his own red-wrapped candy before Aziraphale’s face.

“Fancy some licorice, angel?”

And then he tore into the package with his teeth. 

Instead of gasping at the sight, Aziraphale returned his attention to his candy bar. He took another bite, this time allowing a rope of caramel to drip down his chin as he pulled the treat away. Crowley (there was no other word for it:) growled at the sight, and Aziraphale rewarded his reaction by running his thumb over his chin and bringing it up to taste. 

Crowley brought a long, twisted piece of red licorice up to his mouth. 

“Never had one of these before,” he admitted, casually.

“You should probably find out whether or not you like to taste, dear,” Aziraphale offered, nearly as casually.

Snake-like as ever, Crowley flicked out his tongue to run over the length of the licorice. As he drew his tongue back, he paused, considering his next move.

Aziraphale, quite without meaning to, was leaning over his own armrest, closer to Crowley now than even during the Great Shoulder Grab of 1932. So, Crowley did not need to lean in much himself to nearly brush noses with the angel when he said:

“‘S not my flavor, angel. Want it?”

And he held the ruby-colored licorice up in between their faces. There in the dark, the cocky grin had vanished from Crowley’s face, and his voice was softer when he followed up his offer with:

“‘When in Rome,’ remember?”

And thoughts of winning or losing or whatever other stupidity had inspired this mess in the first place disappeared from Aziraphale’s head as he leaned forward to wrap his lips around the licorice in Crowley’s hand.

It was sweet and it smacked of artificial cherries and it had once been licked by Crowley’s own tongue and, movie theatre etiquette be damned, Aziraphale did moan this time. Crowley sucked in a breath at the sound. Aziraphale felt that familiar surge of power that accompanied Crowley watching him eat. And he still liked it, he did, but…

Trying hard not to break eye contact, Aziraphale fished around beneath their seats to retrieve Crowley’s abandoned popcorn. Aziraphale tore his mouth away, bringing the rest of the licorice with him. As he continued to work his mouth down the candy, he dug his fingers into the popcorn. When he brought his fingers out again, there was a lurch of something like sadness in his stomach at the sight of popcorn grease on his own fingers. The same slick stuff that had started this in the first place.

This wasn’t about winning. This wasn’t about power. This wasn’t a game. Never at the core of the thing, anyway. At the bottom of this box was only ever a forgotten kernel or two and the shine of a deep and terrifying sincerity.

Aziraphale didn’t know how to apologize with a strip of licorice wedged between his lips, so he settled for offering Crowley a piece of popcorn instead. 

Crowley hesitated for only a second before ducking down to take the popcorn and Aziraphale’s fingertips into his mouth. Aziraphale continued to chew and suck the licorice into his mouth as he watched Crowley slowly pull his mouth away. Crowley pulled entirely away then, turning away from Aziraphale and settling back into his seat, fixing his eyes back on to the action onscreen.

_Oh,_ Aziraphale thought to himself, a touch sadly. 

But it was for the best. It was, really. What had he been thinking? Someone could have walked in at any moment, someone could see them. How would they explain this one to Heaven or Hell? 

Aziraphale slipped the nearly-finished licorice deeper into his mouth.

“Of course,” Crowley said out loud beside him, so unexpectedly that Aziraphale flinched. “How can you be certain you don’t like something unless you try it twice, am I right?”

And Crowley twisted in his seat and surged forward, one hand coming up to cup Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide as Crowley closed his lips around the remaining exposed bit of licorice, and his mouth brushed against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale’s own hand was on its way to Crowley’s skin when the film projector broke. 

As the lights in the theatre snapped back on and as a harried manager made their way into the room, Aziraphale and Crowley pulled hurriedly apart. Aziraphale swallowed the rest of the licorice in one go, a little bit like destroying the evidence, and tried not to choke on it.

“Show’s over,” Crowley muttered beside him.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes adjusting to the new brightness in the room. He looked down at his feet, guilt crashing through him and not just over the spilled popcorn, chocolate, and licorice there beneath him.

Sticky floors indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, friends!


End file.
